My films are misinterpreted all the time. I don't mind that. Everybody's films are misinterpreted. But there's no malice or stupidity in the people that misinterpret them. You know what you do, but someone else sees it, and they want to talk about it or write about it, and so they misinterpret them.

Some people want to achieve immortality through their works or their descendants. I prefer to achieve immortality by not dying.

And my parents finally realize I'm kidnapped and they snap into action immediately: They rent out my room.

Paranoia is knowing all the facts.

That’s one of the nice things about writing, or any art; if the thing’s real, it just lives. All the attendant hoopla about it, the success over it or the critical rejection—none of that really matters. In the end, the thing will survive or not on its own merits. Not that immortality via art is any big deal. Truffaut died, and we all felt awful about it, and there were the appropriate eulogies, and his wonderful films live on. But it’s not much help to Truffaut.

If you don't have fun doing the film, then the results of the film will never give you any fun.

No matter what the shrinks, or the pundits, or the self-help books tell you, when it comes to love, it's luck.